


Slow Rise

by manyface



Category: Crypt of the NecroDancer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff without Plot, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 02:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13603497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manyface/pseuds/manyface
Summary: Dove is not a morning person. Bolt is an everything person, but especially a loving their girlfriend person.





	Slow Rise

Given the intensity of her studies, it was typical of Dove to fall into an unyielding slumber after wearily thumbing medical textbooks shut in timid avoidance of the rising sun. Notes in small scratchy writing neatly piled up on the kitchen table, scrawls becoming less legible in the night’s silence, her composure softly flickering out like a reading lamp with old, tired batteries. That was the cue for her to seek her partner’s warmth in bed, gently shifting the blanket to not disturb their sleep, which broke anyway with Dove’s attempts to wrap their protective arms around her with her permanently cold hands. The breathy apology, barely audible in the darkness, was always followed by a soft kiss to the back of her head: they didn’t mind at all. 

Bolt always seemed to have a sleeping schedule impeccably aligned with whatever lay ahead – less a matter of organisation and more of boundless energy. They were the kind of person to take morning runs every day regardless of weather, which Dove frankly thought was ridiculous. Nevertheless, they managed to balance their artistic pursuits in college with both a part time job and a rigorous exercise schedule, inspiring awe and jealousy in their perpetually exhausted girlfriend. 

On Saturdays, Dove relished the break in schedule and took it upon herself to catch up on all the sleep missed: a cosy girl refusing to give up the security of multiple blankets. She usually managed to crash so deeply that Bolt’s morning antics (20-minute jog, cold shower, back to sleep: routine) went all but unnoticed until the familiar warmth of their frame against her back, the weight of their arms, and their fingers curled on her chest returned. With their return, a barely-awake Dove had her bi-weekly epiphany: the blessed realisation that Bolt’s presence in their double bed was all she craved or ever wanted. 

One such typical Saturday, Dove stirred awake under golden rays of sun creeping through the curtains as Bolt’s calloused, yet tender hands brushed blonde curling locks out of her face. Stretching, then lazily rolling over, she nuzzled her partner’s shoulder, scrunching up her face in expected surprise at their sleek, cold hair. It smelled like bright citrus: an energy to rival the sun’s idle shine, outmatched only by their amused yet genuine smile. Dove thought they looked beautiful, their violet hair striking as always; their dark skin glowing in the sunlight; their deep brown eyes reflecting the pure security of a crackling fireplace. She thought out loud, perhaps, enabling Bolt’s hands to tangle in her light, fine hair, and pull her in for a brief peck on the lips. That instigated a slow gasp, and feeble retaliation from her, placing kisses on Bolt’s cheeks and neck, then falling limp and relaxed in their arms. The little weight she had to her prompted them to lower her back onto her pillow and join her with a tight yet comfortable embrace. Dove always relished waking up next to Bolt, and they loved the affectionate neediness she revealed when too tired for decorum: the small kisses she gave, the sleep-whispered declarations of love, her hands seeking warmth clasped to theirs. 

Both rose an hour later, to ensure the woozy workaholic consumed her caffeine, growing alert and level-headed enough to bury herself in academia once more: curled up in Bolt’s lap with a scalding thermos of aromatic pitch, but more importantly, to kiss her true love properly.


End file.
